


In Sickness And In Health

by shewhoguards



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Comfort/Angst, F/M, Rough Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-13
Updated: 2016-02-13
Packaged: 2018-05-20 06:20:08
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 846
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5994628
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shewhoguards/pseuds/shewhoguards
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He needed her. All her married life Narcissa had depended on her husband, confident that his mind, power and magic would always be enough to protect her. Now she made the startling discovery that Lucius, who had never seemed to depend on anybody, needed her.</p><p>Even more startling, and this was only to be admitted in the small, dark, guilty space at the bottom of her soul, this was not something she entirely disliked.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In Sickness And In Health

**Author's Note:**

  * For [oultrepreu](https://archiveofourown.org/users/oultrepreu/gifts).



There was no question that Narcissa Malfoy’s husband had come back from Azkaban a changed man.

During the day he struggled to hide it, fought to keep the same veneer of calm competence that Lucius had always had. It had once been what attracted Narcissa to his side; the security of a man who was always perfectly certain that whichever action he chose was the correct one. Now that confidence had shattered like glass. No-one who loved him as Narcissa had could look at him and fail to see that his nerve was broken.

And the days were as nothing compared to the nights.

On the good nights, there were only the nightmares. Narcissa grew accustomed to the sleepless nights; to the times where he woke shaking and unable to describe why. Sometimes he screamed and recalled nothing on waking, sometimes she found him pacing and unable to sleep at all.

Those were the good nights.

It was the bad nights that made her wonder what the Dementors had stolen from him, what it was that he saw when he stared at her as though trying to recapture something now forever out of his grasp. Sometimes he turned his back on her, unable even to look at her as she put her arms around him and held him, murmuring memory after memory into his ear, trying to refill that stolen gap in his heart. Sometimes he crushed her body to his, holding her so tightly that the air felt pressed from her body, terrified in case she faded into insubstantial mist and escaped him.

He needed her. All her married life Narcissa had depended on her husband, confident that his mind, power and magic would always be enough to protect her. Now she made the startling discovery that Lucius, who had never seemed to depend on anybody, needed her.

Even more startling, and this was only to be admitted in the small, dark, guilty space at the bottom of her soul, this was not something she entirely disliked.

Naturally, she would never have wished this on her husband, never have come close to wanting to reduce him to this. And yet—uncomfortably, Narcissa remembered the love-making of her early marriage. Always Lucius had been polite, gentle, courteous with her, and Narcissa had always understood that this was the way for well-bred people. She would never dreamed of suggesting that she might prefer it otherwise. Then of course there had been Draco, and even those nights became only an occasional occurrence. If she were truly to be honest, that had been a relief – the obligation to react correctly and gratefully to the long slow process had been more exhausting than pleasurable.

How then could she excuse, even to herself, the fact that those nights faded now into dull, unremarkable memory? How could she explain the encouragement she murmured to him, her hands sliding down his body to pull him to her, reassuring him she wanted him, she needed him. It would have been more acceptable if she could tell herself that it was solely an act of charity and pity, a reminder that he was loved still and no more than that.

But that would have been a lie, and if it was a lie that Lucius believed despite her protests it was not one that Narcissa could convince herself of. The truth was that the nights where he pressed her to the bed, where his kisses were desperate and yearning and his hands rough and clumsy enough to leave bruises – she could not begin to compare the polite love-making of their early marriage to that kind of urgency. It was hard, afterwards, to convince him that he should not be ashamed, that her cries had not been of pain or alarm, that yes she wanted this, yes she wanted more, yes please and her kisses coaxed him back into another attempt, her hands drew him back towards her.

Those were the worst nights. Not because they were not enjoyable but because there was no way to explain to her husband that she was the one who should be ashamed. That he needed her, and this was not something that she could bring herself to dislike.

As a child she had been silly, scatter-brained Narcissa, the younger sister that Bellatrix had said scornfully should at least make a good marriage for she would never have brains for more than that. As an adult she had been a good mother and a dependable wife but never more than that, never strong enough to be a Death Eater in her own right. She had only ever been Lucius’ wife, the woman behind him who knew enough to be polite, mind her manners and never let him down.

And now? Now she was still Lucius’ wife – Lucius who needed her, who had protected her and now needed protecting in his turn. She was Narcissa, wife to a man she had loved her whole adult life. If it meant facing down the Dark Lord himself, she would not let him down.

 

 


End file.
